Of Doctors and Soldiers
by GeekyGingerGirl
Summary: At Danny Pink's funeral, Clara Oswald is approached by John Watson, Danny's old friend from the war. But John's friend Sherlock is there to talk to Clara as well- for a very different reason. Eventual Sherlock/Clara I think...well, probably, looking at what I've written so far. I never really know what I'll write before it's on paper, or in this case, on screen.
1. Chapter 1

Her dress was black; all of their clothes were. Except for one of the students' siblings sitting in the back row—she wore jeans and a pink frilly t-shirt. Others shot the girl tearful glares, but Clara could have applauded her. Danny hated it when she wore black, wanted more color and brightness. He'd seen enough darkness in his time in the war.

Speaking of the war, Clara turned her attention back to the service. One of Danny's old friends (James or John or something) from the army was speaking, repeating essentially what everyone else had. "Danny Pink was a good man, a brave one. He fought hard for what was right, yet remained gentle and kind to all of us. He could have died in battle, could have gotten glory and honour and what he was owed. But this is what we have; this is the unjustness of human life. One moment he was here, giving and teaching and loving," the man (_John,_ she thought, _yes, that was it_) glanced at Clara with a sad smile on his lips. "The next he was gone, and we are all left here to remember him and wonder how it could have happened so fast. But Danny wasn't the type to moan and gripe and let himself fall into grief. He was a man who appreciated a good story. So here we are- all the people he helped throughout his life- here to tell the best story. The story of his life."

Clara was surprised at the tears that filled her eyes as John ended his speech. It was the same sentimental shit the others spouted, yet it was more real and harsh and exactly what Clara needed. She realised she had forgotten to bring tissues. How stupid was she? Forgetting tissues for a funeral. She cursed herself as she cried harder in silence. Her grandmother sat next to her, clutching her granddaughter's wrist with a thin hand. "That's it, love. You ought to cry now," the old woman whispered.

Clara was oblivious to the rest of the service; more of Danny's friends stood and shared memories, a few funny, most sweet but silly. She had been encouraged to speak, but declined firmly. What she had to say, she would say to Danny and him alone. She had known them better than most of the people crowded into the church. They didn't need to hear the truth.

The young woman stood, and hurried out of the church. There was to be no burial; Danny had been cremated, a fact which Clara felt so, horribly sick about. That was perhaps the worst of it—the awful truth she bore and couldn't share. It also gave her a sickening sense of superiority, made her feel that her suffering was more righteous than all of these people with their wet handkerchiefs and anecdotes. The man whose speech had finally moved Clara herself to tears, John, stopped her before she could exit. "Miss Oswald- may I call you Clara?"

"Ah, yes," she replied hesitantly. She had wanted to leave early to avoid all of this- the 'sincere apologies' and 'poor dears' and 'Danny really liked yous'.

"I wanted to tell you that, well, you shouldn't have to suffer alone. They all might claim they're here for you, but both of us can see they're lying. I helped train Danny, I knew him the longest out of most of these people, I like to think I knew him best…I'm sorry, I know I sound exactly like them. But that's what I'm trying to say. I'm not, and I know you aren't either, and I thought you should know that I know you-"

"Really articulate John, nicely done," said the man next to him, thin and angular with a thick crop of dark curls and sharp eyes. "Miss Oswald, nice to meet you. This is John, and he's really not quite so daft as he seems. Very nearly though."

Something about the man reminded Clara of the Doctor. "And who are you?" she asked, perhaps a bit rudely, but the man wasn't being very polite either.

"Sherlock Holmes. I'm sure you've heard of me."

"No, sorry. I don't really stay up to date with all the London gossip and everything," Clara sighed. She wanted to go. Now.

"You wouldn't have heard of me in some _gossip tabloid_," he said with contempt.

"Actually, you might have," John smirked, "Thanks to Janine."

Sherlock ignored his friend. "I'm a detective. I take care of all the high-profile murder cases, unsolved mysteries, enemies to the government, et cetera et cetera."

Clara experienced a brief surge of hope, quickly followed by a plunging back into gloominess at the words, _"murder cases."_ But Danny hadn't been murdered, and this man wasn't offering to help her. Sherlock Holmes was showing off, just like every other bloody person in this godforsaken world. "Good for you, mate," she said, turning away.

"Clara, wait-"John said. "Sherlock wanted to meet you as well, that's the only reason he'd come to a funeral with me. I honestly don't know why, but maybe he can explain."

"Er, yes. Miss Oswald, do you….know the Doctor?


	2. Chapter 2

"E- excuse me?" Clara asked, voice shaking.

"That's a yes, then. I need to talk to you about him," Sherlock said firmly.

"I- what? How did you know? I-"

"You're not that hard to read, Clara Oswald," he said, although something in his eyes told Clara he wasn't being perfectly honest. "Control freak, hiding a whole wash of anxiety beneath a busy, bubbly personality. Teacher, a job you love, but it's quite hard on you. Obviously, grieving Danny Pink (in stage 3- anger, I believe), but although this appears to be the second, no, third person close to you you've lost, you're not a stranger to death. Not a soldier or a medial worker, so…what, then? A _time- and space-traveler_?"

John opened his mouth, looking, mystified, between the woman and the detective.

Clara responded very firmly. "Look, Mr. Holmes, whoever you are, you're not so terribly hard to read yourself. You as well are hiding a lifetime of anxiety and loneliness beneath this stuck-up, arrogant arsehole façade. You think you're so bloody smart, and I'm not saying you aren't, but you live in fear of someone one-upping you. Which people have, on multiple occasions. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've just sat through my boyfriend's horrible funeral and I'd like to go home and grieve. Alone." She pivoted on her heel and marched away from the church, aware of multiple pairs of eyes on her back. So her little outburst had caused a scene. _Too bloody bad._

"I'm sorry, Clara. He doesn't understand- feelings and everything," John said, running to catch up with her.

She turned again, looking John directly in the eyes. "Oh yes he does. He just pretends he doesn't to make it easier on himself, so he can get away with whatever he wants to. If he really knows something important about the Doctor, he can make an appointment. I trust he's good enough to track me down."


	3. Chapter 3

Clara was awakened in her dim apartment by the sound of her phone beeping. She thought she had turned off the ringer, but obviously, she had been wrong. She groaned and rolled out of bed to retrieve the device, expecting yet another falsely sympathetic call. But it was a text from an unknown number. She opened it reluctantly.

_Setting up an appointment._

_ -SH_

It was three weeks since the funeral, and although Clara had done barely anything in that time, she had still managed to forget about the rude detective and his army friend.

_Maybe. Tell me what you know then we'll see._

She sent the text, and her phone lit up a few seconds later.

_Time/space traveler, face changes, travels with young British girls like you, presumed dead. -SH_

Clara's head reeled upon reading the last words. It wasn't possible. He came back whenever he died…didn't he? Was it possible that the Time Lords had only given him one regeneration? But no—the Doctor was sure he had another full cycle—12 regenerations—left. Maybe Sherlock wasn't familiar with the regeneration system. Yes, that had to be it. But she had to make sure.

_We should meet. Tomorrow 10am?_

Clara bit her lip. The response came almost immediately.

_Meet you at your favorite tea shop at 9:30. -SH_

She rolled her eyes, but sent back an _Ok._

She spent the next few hours in a kind of charged laziness; needing _something_ to do, but not having the energy to do it. There was some crying, a bit of sleep, and a lot of useless cycling thoughts. She rejected a few calls, picked at some of the donated casserole from the fridge, and half-watched some useless television. Just another day in the life of Clara Oswald, bereaved girlfriend. It sounded so pathetic- my _boyfriend_ died. Their relationship was not one of girls and boys, and her grief was not that of a girl either.

There they were again. The cycling thoughts. The thoughts that tried to make her feel better than everyone, more righteous in her depression. She had to stop this. So she texted Sherlock Holmes.

_ Can we make it tonight? Not necessarily tea. Need to get out of the house. _


	4. Chapter 4

The reply was instantaneous.

_Are you asking me out for dinner? –SH_

_If you're asking if I'm asking if we can meet over the evening meal to discuss important business, then yes, I suppose I am asking you out for dinner._

Clara sent the text so fast she barely registered what she'd written. It was as if her brain had snapped into a different mode…..a _flirting_ mode? No. She was being ridiculous. It was just a message to a man. A boy, really, at least in terms of flirting and other related aspects of adulthood.

_Meet you at the Italian restaurant 3 blocks from your flat in one hour. -SH_

She looked uncomfortably at Sherlock's text. She knew it wasn't that hard to track down a phone number, but now he knew where she lived, too, and had seemed to already have a record of the nearby venues. Nobody could research something that fast, unless he had a browser open with her address in it…..And now, thinking back on his earlier texts, she realized that Holmes also knew her favorite tea place. That was downright creepy. _Okay, Clara, now you're really overthinking it. You can find out how he knows in- in __one hour_, she thought. _Shit. One hour. _She hurriedly rushed around getting ready, even zooming through the shower and changing clothes, then raced to the front door only to discover that she had at least 15 minutes left before she had to leave.

Half an hour later, Clara pulled her bike up to the curb beside the restaurant. She spotted Sherlock inside before she herself entered—he sat alone, bolt upright, with his hands folded neatly, as though he'd arranged every single body part exactly how he wanted them. Clara felt a rush of unexplainable pity for the lonely detective-boy, but brushed it out of her mind as she walked into the busy café and sat down opposite him. "Hello," she said with a faint sigh.

"Hello," he answered, and the word sounded slow and unsure from his lips.

"So. You said….dead?" Clara asked awkwardly. The chatter of the room seemed to disappear as she waited for his answer.

"I said presumed," Sherlock said simply.

Clara sighed again. "Right. Can you explain?"

"You first. I need to know everything possible before I start, in the unlikely event I have something wrong."

She started to roll her eyes before remembering that Sherlock was definitely observing her closely, unlike most of the people she came across, and he would notice. He probably already had. He probably knew exactly what she was thinking. _Stop it, Clara. This isn't helping._ _Concentrate on reading _him, _not worrying about _him_ reading _you.

_Okay. Focus on him. Look him straight in the eye. You are confident and brave and __just__ as smart as him. Well, maybe not. Well, yes! As long as we're on the topic of the Doctor, I am the smart one who's in control. Oh, God, I really am a control freak, aren't I?_

"Neither of us are very good conversationalists, are we?" Sherlock said with dry sarcasm. She had forgotten, in her concentration, to actually say anything.

"I'm a perfectly good conversationalist when I'm with _other_ good conversationalists," she responded, stung and stinging.

"So you're one of those people who puts on a different mask for every different person you're with?"

"Isn't everybody?"

"Not me."

Clara laughed. "That is the most untrue thing I've ever heard."

"I doubt that," he muttered, but she continued.

"You always have a mask on. With John, you were all comfortable and friendly. You went to a _funeral _ with him, which really doesn't seem to be your sort of thing. But you went for him. As soon as John started talking to me, you appeared, maybe a little jealous?"

"I was n-"

"Yes you were. Maybe that's not quite the right word though- defensive? Protective?"

"I don't think-"

"And before I came in here, you were all, sort of….falling apart. Composed on the outside, down to the very last detail, but that's because…you didn't feel that way on the inside, did you? I mean, you still don't. But it's easier to put on masks for other people. You're only ever really _you_ alone." Clara surprised herself with the stream of insight- she hadn't really noticed that she noticed so much. To get back into comfortable ground, she angrily said, "And you're very close to your breaking point. So tell me what you know about the Doctor and I can get what I need to before you fall apart."

"Look at the pair of you," interjected a warm yet unfamiliar voice. "Happiest when you're arguing, eh? My son and his wife are the same way." Clara spun around to meet the eyes of one of the restaurant's waitresses, round wrinkled face grinning.

"We aren't together. It's just….business," she replied firmly.

"Awful emotional business if you ask me," the woman said with a wink. "But I won't pry. What can I get you?"


	5. Chapter 5

They ordered, and as soon as the waitress left, Sherlock said, "Sorry. I get that a lot."

''You get _what_ a lot?" Clara asked skeptically.

"People. Thinking. I- couple, that sort of thing. With John, usually."

She raised an eyebrow and coughed. "Anyways. Back to the Doctor."

"Yes. You were going to tell me first."

"Right. Well, you were right about the time/space travel thing. He's got a time machine disguised as one of those old blue police boxes, you know, the ones from the fifties-"

"Yes, I do know. The T-A-R-D-I-S, I believe?" Sherlock pronounced each of the letters separately, and Clara had to stifle a smile.

"TARDIS. One word. But yes. And, he's alien…there are loads of aliens, you really have to get used to them if you're talking about the Doctor," she glanced at Sherlock to see how he was taking it.

"Like the metal men and the Dalek things that have been popping up?" his expression was blank and composed, as usual.

"Exactly," she said. "How do you know all this?"

"Internet. There are conspiracy sites for everything, of course, but far more for this man than anything else. And more evidence as well. I brought some print-outs, if you want to see," he reached into his coat (it really was rather a glorious coat, all dark and long and swishy) and pulled out a few sheets of paper. Clara took them and glanced through the images. There were some from nearly all of his faces. There were also a few of the companions the TARDIS had shown Clara, mostly young women, of course—even now, Clara felt a bit jealous looking at them. Especially the leggy ginger one. And there, at the bottom of the stack, there were two of her- one of her next to the Doctor with his motorbike in front of the TARDIS- it was from their first real adventure together, and they'd accidentally made street performers of themselves. The next was a blurry shot of her and the _other_ Doctor beside his box in a sunny green forest. Clara remembered that moment well- had the photographer (one of the kids, probably), turned just a fraction to the left, Danny would have been there too. She traced the blank white paper to the side of the photo, wanting more badly than ever for him to be there.

"You've got rather a fan club, apparently," Sherlock said wryly, breaking the silence. "A forum all to yourself."

"Who are the _fans_?" Clara asked, a bit freaked out and a bit pleased.

"Geeky white males in their late teens and early twenties. Who else?"

She was now a bit more freaked out than pleased.


	6. Chapter 6

"So…this _dead_ thing?"

"Ah, yes….I've got a printout of that as well," he reached into the coat again, withdrawing a yellow file folder and glancing at her.

Clara met his gaze with an anxious catch in her breath. She opened the folder and closed her eyes for a minute before looking down. The first page within the folder was a screenshot of one of the 'conspiracy' sites Sherlock had mentioned. A user under the name 'bluebox40' had posted the following:

THE DOCTOR IS MISSING. A police box showed up next door to me yesterday- thought it must be fake, checked inside- I FOUND THE TARDIS. Not an ordinary box. No doctor. Waited. Still none. And box unlocked. Address= 241 St George St if you want to see- I swear I'm not lying! Not sure what to do. Pretty sure I'm not crazy.

The entry was accompanied by a few cell phone photos of- sure enough- the TARDIS' interior. Many replies were below:

-shes telling the truth i went and saw forcefield inside wouldnt let anyone thru door maybe hes still there

-They're right- it's been 3 days since original post. I live a block away and it's still there.

-UPDATE: Box is GONE. Military-looking people (UNIT?) came and took it with a huge crane. ANY Doctor sightings? There's been no sign of him in a week and the TARDIS abandoned=must be bad.

-Guys- I heard a theory about how the Tardis moves away from danger when Doctor isn't inside. Maybe that happened? Been trying to get in contact with Unit and Torchwood since I saw this thread.

"Sherlock, this is scary, yeah, but how does it mean he's dead?" Clara asked. She was seriously impressed with how devoted (how stalkerish) these people were about the Doctor.

"Next page. It's an official UNIT report."

Clara cast the sheet of paper aside and speed-read the next one. By the time she reached the end she was pale and shaking. Sherlock coughed uncomfortably.

"So. The last time he was- the café, with me….he told me he was going home. He said…he said, Gallifrey. And he hasn't been back since. That was….over a month ago," she summarized.

"Yes. But, as you can see, he couldn't have been going home."

"I know. I read the report. They used alien tech to trace the coordinates and there was nothing. Lots of nothing. A black hole."

"Yes. And nothing seen of him since. Except this box, turning up on Miss Janet Heatherfield's doorstep, empty and alone."

"The other person online was right. It does travel away from danger if the Doctor isn't inside and he doesn't have control. That got us in a lot of trouble once," Clara laughed sadly, and realised there were tears pricking at her eyes.

"You know what this might mean, don't you? You've clearly made the connection. But just…look at the next page to be sure," he said.

"How did you get this UNIT report?" she asked. She wanted to put off looking at it, because this whole thing was so ridiculous. The Doctor wasn't dead. He hadn't…._jumped into a black hole_ or whatever Sherlock was suggesting. And if he had, she was not-_not-_ the last person to talk to him. She wasn't sure she could live with that twice over.

"Fairly easy to hack into the email account, even if the report itself was only sent to the top executives and officers. The 'President of the World's' disappearance isn't something they want publicized."

"Stop acting like- like…he's not important. Like he's just another guy, and his maybe death doesn't matter- and-" she spit out, the tears coming against her will. "He's saved your life- all our lives- so many hundreds of times and you don't give him any respect."

Sherlock looked stunned as she stood up, angrily wrenching the folder from the table. "I- what- Clara? I'm telling you, aren't I? Nobody else had- and- I thought-"

She yanked on her coat and stormed out of the restaurant into the rain which had just begun pounding onto the streets. Sherlock sat alone at the table. _You know she was just upset, and she's taking that out on you with anger, _he thought. _It was obvious from the crying, and the suddenness of it all. And she had to be grateful for you telling her, didn't she? She had no reason to be upset with you._

The elderly waitress arrived again bearing a tray with their food. She turned to see Clara disappearing into the grey, rainy street. "Oh, dear. I'm sorry, love. She did care about you, that much was clear…but not everyone can work things out, hmmm? Here, take her food as well. You can have it on the house."


	7. Chapter 7

_What is wrong with me? I am such a freak. I can't even face a simple truth, I have to blame somebody else and ruin any hope of friendship with the one person who actually thought to do something meaningful for me, _Clara thought as she walked away from the café, bike rolling beside her; she had no desire to ride it in the rain. _I am a mess. I'm…_

_Depressed._

The word hit her suddenly, and she wondered why she hadn't thought of it earlier. She knew now it was true, but it made her…uncomfortable, somehow. It wasn't as if she was prejudiced against depressed people, but it had never been something that applied to her. She suddenly brought to mind a checklist to see if you were depressed, a list given years ago to all of the teens at her secondary school. _Feelings of helplessness and hopelessness. _Check. _Loss of interest in daily activities. _Check. _Appetite or weight changes. _Check. _Anger or irritability. _Could she double or triple check that one? _Self loathing. _Another triple check.

Clara wondered how long that list had been stored in her unconscious memory, and how long she'd been depressed…it couldn't have been before Danny's death, could it? She could ask the Doctor- he was the only person aside from who really had seen her during the past few months. _The Doctor. _But he was gone, wasn't he? There was still the last page in the folder, taunting her with its secrets. She would open it when she got home. She would read it, and then she would call Sherlock, and she would apologize for being an insufferable maniac.

But when Clara entered her apartment, she immediately lay down on the couch and had a staring contest with the folder. Her eyes drifted shut as she fell asleep, and she lost the contest, empty promises filling her mind. _I'll read it tomorrow. Tomorrow I'll grow up and deal with everything. Tomorrow I'll stop being depressed._


	8. Chapter 8

The next morning, Sherlock stepped out of a cab and stood in front of Clara Oswald's apartment building, feeling unexplainably nervous. _You need her help- she's the only person who actually knows anything worthwhile about the Doctor. Unless you tried contacting that Doctor Martha Smith and her husband, there were pictures of both of them on the websites…Stop making excuses, Sherlock!_

As he paced back and forth, hand rising to the doorbell and falling uselessly to his side again, Sherlock's own long-ago words echoed mockingly in his head. _Oscillation_ _upon the_ _pavement_ _always_ _means_ _an affaire de coeur_. But he replaced that thought with a fact- a fact established by far too many people on countless occasions. _Sherlock Holmes had no heart._ He purposefully raised his arm once more and pushed the 'call' button for Clara's apartment.

After about a minute, she responded. "Who's there?" Her croaky lack-of-sleep voice was made even more ragged with the crackle of the machine.

"It's me, Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes." _Curses. How stupid was he? It wasn't as if she knew other Sherlocks._ "I wanted to apolo-"

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I was going to call you last night, and then I was going to call you this morning and I just woke up and…I'm sorry."

Sherlock was caught off guard. She really was extremely unpredictable. "Er, right then. It's fine. Have you, uh, read the file?"

"No," she sighed, then added with a teasing tone, "Look, you can come up and glare at me until I do."

"Right," he said. She was lying to him. Well, not outright lying. She had a mask on. She was pretending to be happy and alright and funny, and she was not very good at it. But the door buzzed, so Sherlock walked through the door and up to Clara's apartment.

When he reached the top of the narrow flight of stairs, Clara yanked open her door and let him through. She had a bedhead and was wearing the same clothes as yesterday. Her coat was lying on the floor in the main area, and the yellow envelope was sitting on her kitchen table. It was obvious she had fallen asleep on the couch immediately after returning from the café and only just woken up. "Hi," she said sheepishly, and he could tell that she knew about (and was feeling awkward about) his deducting. He tried to put on observation blinders, but it didn't work. The flat itself screamed 1970s, but Clara had made it an almost oxymoronic pleasant 1970s. The décor was mostly orange, brown, and red, giving the place a homey feel. There were dishes cluttering the kitchen and books and other miscellanea tossed around the floor. He quickly deducted that she hadn't been at work since the funeral, hadn't gone grocery shopping in a few weeks, but didn't really notice since she wasn't eating much. There were only two probable explanations, considering she didn't seem to be physically ill and the apartment had seen better days: pregnant and depressed, and Sherlock knew which.


	9. Chapter 9

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Sorry guys but I won't be resolving the last cliffhanger just yet, since I'm switching back to Clara's perspective for most of it. I really love reading all your reviews!**

Clara gestured Sherlock towards the couch and sat down next to him with one leg pulled under her and the folder on her lap. "Sorry I haven't been able to clean…or change since yesterday. I really ought to, but…"

"I don't mind. I once wore nothing but a sheet to Buckingham Palace."

Clara gave a short, shocked little laugh of disbelief. "I have no idea when to believe you or not."

"I haven't lied to you once," he said.

She paused a moment, considering his eyes- quiet and restful for once. She knew he was telling the truth, but- "That doesn't mean you never will," she whispered.

He was back to brusque and mechanical. "I can't promise anything. Nobody can."

"I suppose that's true. Here goes," Clara hesitated and glanced up again, maybe hoping for some sort of reassurance. She didn't get it. As if that was unexpected. She opened the folder to read the last page.

_To all whom it may concern,_

_I am writing to inform you of the Doctor's death. He was killed in battle with the Daleks far away, a long time in the future. I can confirm that the death took place in his twelfth form, and he was 'Exterminated' again before the regeneration process could complete. It is my belief that the Doctor chose death in this case. He entered a known military command planet of his sworn enemies with no plan or supplies. To those who knew the Doctor, this may seem completely commonplace, but there is one key difference. The Doctor was alone. I regret to be the bearer of this news. Today, the universe has lost its protector, and its oldest friend._

_Sincerely, C. Oswald._

Clara's head snapped up as she reached the end of the letter. "_C. Oswald?_"

"Yes," Sherlock said, leveling that cool stare at her.

"But- I- what?"

"Yes," he repeated.

"Okay," she took a deep breath. "Okay. It must be one of the echoes. That's the only explanation. They're everywhere, so I guess…must be."

"Care to tell me what you're talking about?"

"Right. Let me explain."


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Sorry for the wait, I've been really busy. But here's the next chapter, and I promise more is on the way!**

"…and now there are a lot of doubles of me scattered around the universe, wherever the Doctor has been. Or it could be me, from the future…." Clara finished. Sherlock, as usual, seemed unfazed by the discussion of aliens and time-streams.

"Either seems plausible. But how do we find out? That is, assuming you want to find out."

"Of course I do. I suppose the first thing- the _only_ thing I can do, really, is get in touch with UNIT."

"My brother works for the government. I can arrange a meeting through him, or-"

"No, it's alright. I'll call. I'm pretty sure the President of the Universe's death has more priority than your brother, whoever he is."

"He," Sherlock adopted a haughty tone, "_is_ the government."

"Sure," Clara rolled her eyes.

"Remember the Buckingham Palace story?"

"How could I forget? That was five minutes ago, and I'm pretty sure I'll have that image in my mind for the next five _years_."

"Yes. Well, we were there partly due to my prowess as a detective, and partly to his status."

"That's really lovely for the pair of you, but I'm going to do this on my own. I have connections too."

"On your own," Sherlock repeated. "Meaning…I should go."

"No, sorry," Clara sighed. "I came off as harsh there, sorry. I want your help. But I don't want your bragging."

He cleared his throat. "Seems fair, but only if I get something in return."

"What?"

"You don't do any of the process behind my back- not even sending emails. And I'd really prefer to set up HQ at my flat."

"Um…alright," Clara said, "I didn't know mine was _that_ bad."

"It's not. It'll just be useful…interesting to test government efficiency…"

She looked at him quizzically, but Sherlock didn't elaborate, and she didn't push him.

"Should I get started? Look up UNIT's contact information, send an email or call them or whatev-"

"Didn't we just agree we'd do it at my place?" he cut across.

"Er, yeah, I guess we did. Does that mean you're leaving now?"

"I- I think so," Sherlock replied, standing up awkwardly. Clara cursed on the inside. _Why did every conversation they had need to end in a train wreck?_

"When should I come over to get started?" she asked, in a desperate, last-minute attempt to restore peace.

"This afternoon. 4pm. Start looking for a new job first."

"I have a job," she said, nonplussed.

"You're honestly still fooling yourself that you'll go back there, Clara?"

"It- it pays well, as far as teaching goes."

"Stop fighting back. It's time you accepted it. You were miserable there, anyways. Danny was the only reason you stayed so long and look where that got the both of you."

She felt as if she had been slapped. "You can go now, Sherlock. Thanks for the tip. Maybe I'll see you at 4, maybe not." Clara stood and walked to the door, opening it and then closing it behind him. She leaned against the doorframe as soon as he was gone. Talk about train wrecks.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Sorry again for the wait, I've been busy with final exams, and allowing myself the guilty pleasure of 'writing ahead' to what I wanted to write ****but here it is!**

_Idiot, idiot, idiot, _Clara repeated to herself over and over. She wasn't sure which of them she was talking about. _Idiot. _Both probably. _Idiot._

She slumped down on the sofa again, any hopes of a good mood giving their death rattle beneath the passing wheels of a ruined friendship. Good god, she really was being rather morbid, wasn't she?

Clara groaned and flopped over onto her side, hugging a throw pillow. In just one sentence, Sherlock had made her question her entire career. It was true—she _had _been miserable at Coal Hill; the kids teased her and the other teachers looked down on her, especially given her relationship with Danny. And she didn't really have any plans of returning, it had just sort of been at the back of her mind for the past month or so, getting further back with every passing day. She reluctantly pulled her laptop over to her and searched for primary school teaching positions in London. But before she sent in any applications or made enquiries, there was one thing she had to do.

Four hours later, Clara sat in the small, familiar office with a firm set chin. "Mr. Hartwell, I'm sorry but…I have to leave my position," she announced.

Her now ex-boss looked back at her with a sad, knowing little smile. "Perfectly understandable, Miss Oswald. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, but it's always a shame to let a good teacher go."

Had she really been a good teacher, or was he just saying that? "Thank you, sir. It's a wonderful place, but…you know. Given the circumstances…"

"Of course. Thank you, Clara. And thank you for coming in, in person. Most people would have just called or emailed. You've got a good old-fashioned sense of dignity," Hartwell said.

She paused. "Right. I- I figured I owed it to you. I suppose…I'll go now."

"Do you need anything from your classroom?"

"No thank you. It'll be good to start fresh," she smiled at him as she turned and walked out of the little school for the last time, feeling a mix of sadness, regret, and relief.

It was just before half past three when Clara returned home to her apartment. A part of her said not to bother, that she'd already made enough of an effort, what with letting him in here and reading the envelope and on top of that, _quitting her job_ because of him….but another part knew that she had to, to preserve that 'sense of dignity' Principal Hartwell had described. That part won. It always did, in the end.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: I thought I owed you guys a lighter and longer chapter, so here it is! **

A quick Google search and half an hour later saw Clara standing on the pavement outside 221B Baker Street, determined not to let anything go wrong this time. She knocked smartly, knowing (and sort of hoping) that Sherlock would be able to notice her confident cheeriness from the sound. The door was opened a few seconds later, not by Sherlock, but by an older woman in a floral dress.

"Sherlock's upstairs, dear," she said.

"Erm, thanks," Clara said. "How did you know I was…?"

"Oh, I always know. I'm Mrs. Hudson, by the way. His landlady. Go on up."

"Thanks," Clara said again, and proceeded up the narrow stair. Before she reached the top, she heard yelling and banging. Clara stuck her head back down. "Mrs. Hudson? Sorry, but…do you know if everything's alright up there?"

"Oh, yes dear, don't worry, just go in. I've learned to ignore even the gunshots."

"Right," she replied. Gunshots?

Clara walked back to the top of the stairs, where the door was already slightly ajar. She knocked, but the sound was drowned in another match of shouting. "And then he's gone, just like that and me wife's gone with 'im and there ain't no way I can find 'em and so I's come to you lot an' you 'aven't done nothin' neither!" said a voice, a decidedly un-Sherlockian voice. She gently pushed the door open enough to see what was going on.

Sherlock sat, poised and polished as usual, hands clasped at his lap as a large, red-faced man stomped back and forth yelling. A smallish woman sat behind Sherlock, taking notes, brown eyes tired but bright. Clara squeezed herself inside and around the corner, meeting Sherlock's gaze for a second. His eyes acknowledged her presence in that instant, but the rest of him was utterly focused on the shouting man. Clara looked around and took a seat on one of the small chairs in the room she now realized was the kitchen, and continued to regard the proceedings with curiosity.

"Please calm down sir. Can you explain to me why you came directly here and not to the police?" Sherlock asked the man.

"I did bleedin' go to the police an' they told me she was fine an' all!" he replied, not calming down one bit. "But I know it ain't right. None of it is."

"Molly, please go get Mr. Wallace a glass of water. And one for Clara too, while you're at it," said Sherlock, and the woman seated behind him moved over to the kitchen.

"Hi," the woman, Molly, whispered, smiling cautiously. "You're Clara Oswald?"

"Yeah," Clara said, standing up and shaking Molly's hand. "And you're Molly, obviously."

"Yes, I'm just helping Sherlock out with this case. He likes to bring me for some of them to keep us occupied. He's been talking loads about you and this Doctor fellow."

"Really?" Clara asked, not sure whether to be pleased, defensive, or confused. She settled on an uncomfortable mix of the three. It seemed as if this Molly had known about the Doctor's death and the surrounding mystery for longer than Clara herself had. A particularly loud scream of rage from 'Mr. Wallace' made both women jump. "So…what do you do for a living?"

"I'm a pathologist. I work in a morgue," Molly grimaced as she poured two glasses of water. "Dead people stuff."

"Oh, right. Cool," Clara said. It only made sense that Sherlock had a circle of friends just as odd and intriguing as him.

"And you?"

"I'm…unemployed. As of an hour ago. At Sherlock's suggestion," Clara sighed, realizing how utterly ridiculous it sounded.

"Oh," Molly said. "Yes, he does have that sort of power over people. It might seem insane now, but keep in mind that he was probably right in the end."

Clara was surprised and a little touched at how quickly the other woman had read her, and how she knew exactly what to say. It seemed Sherlock and his friends were all highly observant geniuses as well as odd and intriguing.

"Thanks. Look- should I just go?" Clara asked. She was feeling increasingly small and out of place. "Sherlock told me to come by at four, and Mrs. Hudson said to just go up, but it doesn't look like he'll be done any time soon, does it?"

"No, don't go," Molly said, turning to face Clara. "He's always busy with something or other. And this one's probably just a distraction; it's not interesting to him at all."

"You're sure?"

"Of course I'm sure. I promise we'll be finished in five minutes."

Clara sat down again with her glass of water as Molly returned to her own place behind Sherlock, and began to watch the events unfolding in front of her.


	13. Chapter 13

**So sorry for the (ridiculously) long wait everybody, I hope you like it!**

In a few minutes, red-faced yelling man had left, just as Molly predicted. Sherlock showed him out and turned back to Clara and Molly. "You came," he said simply.

"Obviously," she said snarkily, then remembered not to let anything go wrong. "I'm sorry about everything falling apart again."

"You don't need to apologize. I should probably have- not….you know."

"And that's as close as you get to an apology from him," Molly whispered in Clara's ear as she left the kitchen. "I'll leave you two to it."

"Thank you, Molly," Sherlock said and she smiled in acknowledgement before slipping onto the stairs.

"So…." Clara started. "We call UNIT?"

"Yes. Their number is already plugged in to my phone," Sherlock replied and handed the device over.

"Right," Clara said. "You want me to talk t-"

"Of course."

"Okay." She scrolled through his contacts, trying not to look at any of the names until she landed on 'UNIT'. Clara looked up for one more nod of affirmation from him and dialed.

"Hello, you have reached the main office of the Unified Intelligence Taskforce. To report an alien encounter, please press 'one'. To speak to a representative, press 'two'," said the machine.

"Is this a legitimate thing? Like, do people call to report alien encounters?"

"It's legitimate. Most people just don't have access to the number," said Sherlock.

"You said you wouldn't use connections," she said, annoyed.

"It's not connections, it's just doing a bit of digging."

She smiled and pressed the 'two' button on Sherlock's phone. A minute later, after an annoying chunk of elevator music, someone picked up.

"Hello, UNIT Headquarters, this is Mark," said a receptionist.

"Hi, um, this is Clara Oswald. Look, I, um, I know the Doctor, and…." She trailed off, not sure where to begin.

"The Doctor?" he said, instantly losing the scripted-sounding voice.

"Yeah."

"As in the President of the Earth Doctor?"

"Yep."

"Um," Mark laughed, excited. "Let me transfer you."

Clara smiled excitedly at Sherlock as the line clicked.

"You have reached the office of Kate Stewart," said a familiar but tired voice.

"Hi! It's me. Um, Clara," she said. "Oswald. The Doctor's ex-companion."

"Clara! Hello," Kate said, a smile in her voice, but then paused. "Wait- you said _ex-_companion?"

"Well, yes."

"You mean you haven't seen him?"

"Well, no," Clara responded hesitantly. Kate sighed, and in that sound Clara felt a wave of pain and lost hope that felt all too familiar. "I-I'm sorry. I thought….I thought you would have. Thought it would all be wrong." And then Clara was crying, letting everything fall back into reality; cold, crushing, impossible reality. She tried to pull herself together, but instead ended up collapsed on Sherlock's sofa, shaking uncontrollably.

He pried the phone from her hands, and said to Kate, "We'll call you back." He then turned to Clara with a wide-eyed, deer-in-headlights expression. She was fairly sure he saw people crying rather often, what with the murder investigations and all, but that face….Clara's sobs turned into half laughter, which turned back into full-on crying for at least another minute. Sherlock mutely handed over a tissue box.

"Sorry," she managed as the tears slowed and she blew her nose.

"No, it's okay. You probably needed to….er, process, or….whatever," he said, waving a hand limply through the air. "Catharsis?"

"Mmm," was all she said. She wasn't exactly feeling better after the cry, but not worse either. "Okay. You can give me the phone now."

"I'm not so sure about that," Sherlock said, sitting down next to her, and Clara's heart foolishly skipped a beat. She hated her heart sometimes.


	14. Chapter 14

The call had gone considerably well up to this point—Clara had easily made contact with one of UNIT's chief officers. But now…now _this. _She was crying, and Sherlock had absolutely no idea what to do about it. He took the phone and ended the call, then turned back to the mystery that was in front of him. _Was he supposed to say something? Or leave her alone? Pretend she wasn't crying? What?!_

Alarm bells were going off in his mind palace. And then he had an epiphany. Tissues! Sherlock knew he had some around…..somewhere….he did a quick mental survey of the mess around him and quickly unearthed the box from beneath a pile of newspapers. He gave her the box, but she didn't stop crying.

_Male humans have been found to become less attracted to females at the scent of their tears._

Where on earth did Sherlock's brain unearth that little factoid from? And _why_ at this particular moment? _Because she's crying, and it was just an interesting piece of information. That's all. Not because…._

But Clara had stopped crying now, so Sherlock allowed himself the rare pleasure of leaving his thoughts behind.

A few minutes later, Clara, having sufficiently calmed herself down, pressed the call button once more.

"Hi, Mark," she said, twisting her voice into something that she hoped sounded chipper and cheery. It didn't fool Sherlock, but Mark was almost certainly not as smart as Sherlock. "It's Clara Oswald again. Can you put me through to Kate?"

"Of course," the receptionist replied, and the line clicked.

"Hello," Kate said.

"Hi. Sorry about that," Clara said.

"No worries, I still haven't totally accepted it either."

"Yeah. Um, listen….I was wondering if I could see the TARDIS?"

There was a pause. "Well…um, there's going to be paperwork."

"I'm a teacher, I can do paperwork."

"Right. Um. Okay, I suppose I can get a file started and have you come pick it up. Will tomorrow work?" Kate didn't wait for a reply. "Come to the Tower sometime after 10, and tell the gatekeeper "Pond." The Doctor's favorite code word. Not sure why we're still using it, but anyways…" she sighed, "I hope to see you soon, Clara."

"Me too. Thanks Kate. And sorry again for the…well, you know."

"Again, no worries."

"Right. Bye."

Clara hung up the phone and handed it back to Sherlock, running her fingers through her hair and pressing hard into her temples.

"This is good, isn't it?" Sherlock asked, still caught off guard.

"Yeah, I suppose," she said heavily. "At least now we get to do something."

"Yes. Listen, I can, um, send someone to get the folder tomorrow. Make it easier for you?" he said the last part as a question, not entirely sure whether it was true or not, but Clara broke into a tired smile.

"That would actually be really good, thank you."

He felt a moment of pride, and, determined not to let the silence last too long between them, said, "Good, then."

"Okay. Well, I guess I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Yes. Goodbye, Clara."

She turned to leave the flat, feeling something inexplicable hovering in the air between her and Sherlock, something a little bit sad and a little bit strange but mostly kind of….okay.


	15. Chapter 15

Clara returned to Sherlock's flat the next midmorning, heart pumping and head held high. She was finally _doing something_, doing something that would actually be worth it in the long run; even if that thing was only a pile of paperwork. Mrs. Hudson let her in again with a nod and smile up the stairs. She approached Sherlock's door with ears anticipating a gunshot or shouting. But there was only silence.

She knocked, hesitantly leaning her ear next to the door. "Sherlock?"

More silence.

She rapped harder on the door. "Hullo?"

"In. Come. Now," the monosyllables echoed from inside the flat and Clara stepped inside anxiously. She glanced around, not seeing any sign of Sherlock. She tiptoed around, then almost fell backwards over a pile of boxes when she spotted him lying, still as a corpse, on the couch. The clatter of boxes seemed to break him from some sort of reverie, and he sat up, hands folded under his chin.

"Were you….meditating or something?" she asked.

"You could call it that," he said with a little annoyed scoff.

"Oookay," she said, rolling her eyes. "I'm not stupid, you know. I'd probably understand if you bothered to explain."

"Mind palace. Thingy. Place in my head where I organize thoughts," he gestured a bit wildly around his head, eyes out of focus.

"Right," Clara said, nodding slowly and sarcastically. "You doin' okay?"

"I was in my mind palace, and I was interrupted," he said venomously. "So now I'm trying to sort everything out while you're. Still. Talking."

"Sorry," she muttered. "You did tell me to come over after ten."

Sherlock pursed his lips together. "I also told you to shut it!"

"No, you didn't," she said in a snotty sing-song that used to drive her parents mad.

"Well I certainly implied it, and as you seem to think you aren't stupid I assumed you'd be able to comprehend!"

Clara held her tongue and the quiet fell awkwardly between them.

"Sorry," he gave in.

"Yup."

"Okay?"

"Yup."

"Alright. So, I, uh, got someone to run over to the Tower for the paperwork. It seems Kate included some other UNIT reports and things, relating to the disappearance."

"Ooh, so you didn't find everything on your own then, did you?" Clara couldn't help it.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her.

"Sorry."

"Yup. Anyways, it's quite a stack," he reached behind him onto a large pile of papers and handed the top chunk to her. Clara maneuvered herself and the files onto the nearby table.

"Could we get some light in here? It's like a bloody cave," she asked, clicking into paper-grading mode as she picked up the first page.

Sherlock obediently turned on a lamp (or tried to—the first sputtered out as soon as he switched it on), and sat across from her at the table. "How's it goi-" he ventured as she skimmed. Clara held up a finger. Apparently she needed mind palace time now.

"Pen," she said bluntly, and he hurried over to the coffee table, coming up with a blunt, eraser-less pencil, jam-covered pen, and—oh, that's where the Duchess' dagger went—before finding a suitable writing instrument and giving it to her. Clara silently scribbled a few things at the bottom of the page and moved to the next.

After about twenty minutes of trying very hard to make no noise at all, Clara shoved a pile of pages towards Sherlock. "You can fill out the circled bits," she announced, then turned back to her own stack before he could even nod in agreement. In half an hour or so, Sherlock had finished with the papers. (It was basically writing in the same thing over and over—Applicant's name? _Clara Oswald_. Requests access to? _TARDIS._ Security Code? _Pond. _Applicant's national insurance number?)

"You know my national insurance number?" Clara shrieked as she leaned over to examine the pages.

"Um…" Sherlock started. He wasn't quite sure how he was going to get out of this.

"Sherlock," she glared at him. "You need to tell me how. I could have you arrested for that."

"You wouldn't arrest me; you need my help with all of this."

"Actually," Clara said, pulling the papers from Kate tight to her chest, "I don't."

He sighed. "I saw it when I was in your flat. It was lying out."

"No, it wasn't. Don't try to lie to me, Sherlock."

He winced. "I may have done some, ah, research. With, er, a little help from my brother."

Clara moaned and leaned back in her chair. "So basically anyone could find it. I could have my identity stolen tomorrow. Yesterday, even!"

"Certainly not anybody," he said. "I've told you. My brother i-"

"_Is the government_," she echoed dryly. "Fine. I won't worry about this now. Have you finished with yours?"

"Ah, yes," Sherlock said, quickly handing over the papers he was working on.

"Excellent. You can read these and have a report to me b- sorry. Teacher there. Just summarize. Take notes, if you want?" Clara glanced up. The joke hadn't quite gotten through to Sherlock. She tried again, a little bit more obvious. "Annotate for symbolism?"

"What?"

"Right. Not trying that again," Clara smirked.


	16. Chapter 16

"Do people ever actually fall asleep reading?" Clara said, yawning and setting the sheaf of papers down.

"Sorry?" Sherlock mumbled.

"Does anybody actually? Because I never can. I can't sleep if my book is still open. But it's a thing, like people do it in movies all the time and then- oh dear. I'm rambling. I need coffee."

They were still seated at the table, papers piling up on all sides. It was just going dark out but neither of them had moved in hours, except to eat the sandwiches Mrs. Hudson had miraculously appeared with around noon.

"Coffee?" Sherlock asked, as if the concept was unknown to him. "Erm…I know we have tea…"

"I need something with a real energy boost," she said, stretching her arms up above her head.

"Nicotine?" he suggested. Clara was about to laugh before she remembered that Sherlock didn't get jokes, let alone make them.

"No…thanks," she said, a bit amused and a bit concerned that he thought this a suitable offering for guests.

"I think Mrs. Hudson might have a….a coffee thing."

"Maker. You do realize it's called a coffee _maker_, don't you?" she asked, furrowing her brows. There was a pause.

"Mmm," he replied noncommittally.

"That's a no, then," Clara whispered to herself, mildly incredulous. Why did she constantly find herself friends with strange men with odd specialties and little to no function in everyday life? _Not that I'm complaining_, she thought with a little smirk, then internally smacked herself. "I don't want to bother her. Mind if I look around in your kitchen? You're bound to have some coffee somewhere," she said, already marching over to the kitchen and opening cupboards.

"Wait!" Sherlock called, running after her, but he was too late. Clara opened the fridge and nearly retched. An _arm_ was sitting there, next to a plastic baggie of what looked like blood.

She turned away and managed faintly, "Not jam, that, is it?"

"Er, no," he replied, closing the fridge and biting his lip. "Fingers."

"Ooh, right." Clara's voice was a bit higher than usual.

"You alright? People sometimes faint."

"Nah, that's not gonna happen. Teacher, right? I've seen loads of scraped knees in my day. And dead people. With the Doctor, that is."

Sherlock was not convinced.

"Why, though?" Clara asked, sitting down heavily in one of the kitchen chairs.

"Why the arm? It's for a case."

"What sort of bloody case?" She winced. "No pun intended."

"Oh, alright, fine. _Personal entertainment._"

"Most people watch TV."

"I'm not most people."

"Obviously not."

"We could do more paperwork?" Sherlock suggested hopefully. Nausea was not one of his favorite things to deal with in others.

Clara laughed. "Thanks, but no. What did you find out in the reports and things?"

"Not much," Sherlock said. "Basically confirming what we've already gathered."

She nodded with her lips pressed tight together.

"I found some more references to you. They said you knew the Doctor's name, and apparently that information is highly valuable."

"Oh, no. Not me. Well, yes me. But it was erased from my memory. And that's not going to help us find him, anyways."

"Mentioned Danny, too," Sherlock said, glancing sideways to gauge her reaction.

"Oh," Clara said, feigning indifference.

"They said he died as a 'Cyberman', whatever that is. Not hit by a car."

She flinched, then retorted, voice continuously strengthening. "It doesn't matter. Not that much anyways. He died heroically and selflessly, and I know that, okay? Nobody else does but that's alright because I do."

"Sorry," Sherlock said, aware that he'd hit a nerve. "But I was just thinking. Could you tell John?"

She looked up at him, half-smiling but still half sad and angry. "That's really sweet of you, Sherlock."

"I don't know about that," he said, turning away from her.


	17. Chapter 17

Clara left 221B Baker Street a few minutes later, with a promise to return the next morning to meet with John and explain the truth of Danny's death. Clara kept it as a rule to reveal as little as possible about the Doctor, and figured this would put her into rather a difficult position, but she also knew Danny would appreciate his friends knowing the truth.

She was feeling relatively good-spirited, if red-eyed and tired. She flagged a cab, deciding to giver herself a little treat in exchange for a hard day's work. But as it pulled up to the curb and Clara was just stepping in, a woman yanked her away by the arm with cold, bony fingers. The attacker was about sixty years old, with wild eyes and hair that looked to have been styled by the winds atop a moor. Clara was too stunned to pull away or protest as the woman leaned right into her face.

"I'm meant to tell you to stop. Please, stop it. You're not meant to know, and nor is the tall man. Please just stop."

"St-stop what?" Clara stuttered, her heart thumping out of her chest, even though she knew exactly what the woman was referring to.

"Stop with the murder investigation. It ain't meant to happen. Please, just promise me you'll stop it. Stop it and we all can live." The woman was near tears, and Clara noticed through her haze of panic that there was a little red light focused on the woman's chest.

"I promise," Clara lied, and the woman stepped back from her, panting and sobbing.

"He says he'll know. You don't stop and he'll know."

"I said I promise," Clara repeated breathlessly.

The woman disappeared into the night, and Clara was left leaning on the cab door. She glanced up in an attempt to find the source of the red light, but there was nothing visible in the dark windows across the street.

"You alright, Miss? Still gonna use the cab?" asked the cabbie through his window.

"Yeah, sorry," Clara said shakily, brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes.

"You know I've gotta charge you for this time you been waiting."

"Yeah, whatever," she stepped inside the cab, feeling, for the first time in her life, truly in danger. In the past, there had always been someone to protect her—her parents, the Doctor, Danny. But now she was really, finally alone. And it was terrifying.


	18. Chapter 18

She could call Sherlock, she supposed. Of course she could call him. She _should_ call him. But something kept her hand hovering a few inches above her phone.

Clara was alone in her apartment, later that night, unable to sleep. Instead of turning to Sherlock, or even to the police, she rocked back and forth, repeating the information to herself. She hoped that the repetition, like a fairy tale, would remove all the dark bits and leave her feeling calm instead. It wasn't working, but Clara couldn't stop herself.

_I've just been threatened. It means I'm being watched, and followed, and so is Sherlock. It means that someone knows who I am and what I'm doing, and they think that the Doctor's been murdered. This person is obviously very powerful, and they've put an ordinary person's life in danger to get through to me. My life is probably in danger. My life is certainly in danger. My life is quite possibly in danger at this very moment, even though I'm alone and all the doors and windows are bolted shut. Aren't they?_

Clara leapt off her bed and checked every opening in the place for the fifth time that night. She improvised a noise alarm with a precarious pile of pots and pans—she would now know immediately if someone entered her flat. She returned to bed, turned on her laptop and shut it down again; dialed Sherlock's number and ended the call before it even began; opened a book and found herself reading the same page over and over again. Finally, Clara picked up her phone again and held the 'three' button for speed dial.

"Hello, this is Dave Oswald. Please leave a message and I'll— I have to what, sweetheart?"

Clara heard her own muffled voice in the background, saying, "Say 'I can't come to the phone right now!'"

"Leave a message, 'cause I can't come to the phone right now—"

"No!" Long-ago Clara groaned and today Clara—lonely, frightened today Clara-laughed shakily.

"Well," Dave finished, "um, call back, I guess."

"Dad, that was rubbi-"

Long-ago Clara's voice was cut off by a beep, and today Clara started to speak. "Hey, Dad, it's me. I know it's late, but I just wanted to say hey, check in, whatever. Well, um, call back, I guess," her tired voice was strained with a smile as she repeated the familiar inside joke, hoping he'd remember.

She ended the call and set the phone on her bedside table, staring at the ceiling. She was empty, and she was so, so tired. Sometimes she thought she'd lived too much for twenty-seven years, and it was on sleepless nights like these that she returned to times before—all the pain she'd ever felt, all the graves she'd cried over. No tears came now, though, just the dull aching of loss and fear. Clara remembered the predictions of a wizened festival fortune teller when she was six. _You will grow up to be a beautiful woman, darling. You'll live a long life, with many loves and oh-so-many adventures. But death follows you as well, my dear. You won't be able to shake that companion._ It seemed that the foretelling were turning out true. The last one certainly was.


	19. Chapter 19

"Hi Clara," John said, answering the door at 221B the next morning.

She managed a faint smile as she stepped over the threshold. "Hey."

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked bluntly, looking her up and down. She shook her head almost imperceptibly, but he launched straight into a deduction. "Your eyes have about doubled in size, as has the intensity of the shadows beneath them. Haven't slept, up worrying. Your clothes are rumpled, your hair is a mess. Whatever you're worrying about is important enough to keep your mind off your own appearance, which is usually one of your first concerns. So what's the matter, Clara Oswald?"

"Sherlock! Rude!" John said.

"Well?"

"Not now, Sherlock," Clara said tightly. He frowned but turned away.

"Should we sit down?" John asked, leading the odd little group into the living room with an exasperated glance at Sherlock. They sat down in chairs next to the fireplace, Clara's opposite the men's. She felt rather as if she was being interrogated, especially considering the accusatory glares Sherlock continued to shoot her.

"So, ah, John," Clara started, glaring back at him. "I'm here because, well—"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at her as if to say _What's the big deal?_

Clara widened her eyes pointedly. _Not now!_

"Uh," Clara tried again. "John, Danny didn't actually die in a car crash. Well, at first he did. But then…." She barely noticed the words coming out of her mouth, so focused was she on her silent conversation with Sherlock.

"Um, I'm going to get some more tea," John said, giving them an odd look.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Sherlock hissed, "What the hell is wrong?"

"I will tell you later!" Clara said furiously.

Sherlock leaned in very close to her so as not to be overheard. "If it's about the Doctor, and I'm fairly confident it is, you really ought to tell me. It seems important enough that you need to."

She pressed her face even nearer to his and said, very firmly, "Not now." She also concentrated very hard on not looking at his lips, which were at present far too close to hers.

"Ahem," John said. Clara yanked herself back into an upright position, blushing a little. He was standing in the doorway to the kitchen with two cups of tea and a matching set of raised eyebrows.

"Sorry," Clara said, even though she had nothing to apologize for. "I was just telling Sherlock to _mind his own business_."

"And I was telling Clara that it clearly is my business," he retorted. She made a face at him.

"Right," John said, sitting down and offering Clara one of the cups. She took it, angrily looking right past Sherlock's head. "Look, do you two need…a moment or something?"

"No," Clara said.

"Yes!" Sherlock said at the exact same moment. She rolled her eyes.

"Well, I have some grocery shopping to get to," John said, clearly uncomfortable.

"Fine," Clara moaned.

"Brilliant," Sherlock said, clapping his hands together like an 18th century butler. He looked at her expectantly until John had gone and it was just the two of them alone. "So?"

"So…I got threatened last night. Um, this lady came up to me on the street, said that I should stop it. I asked her what to stop, she said the murder investigation. Obviously she was referring to the Doctor. Because apparently we- she mentioned you, too- aren't supposed to find out what happened. She said that we'd all die unless I promised to stop. She had…a red light thingy, it was trained on her chest. Like one of those sniper things. Said _he'd_ find out if we don't stop."

Sherlock was regarding Clara very solemnly. He nodded slowly as she finished. "You know what this means, don't you?"

Clara shook her head. "I'm not playing games with you, Sherlock."

"It means," he said, leaning towards her so he could whisper in her ear. His lips brushed gently through her hair. "We aren't stopping for the world."


	20. Chapter 20

"But," Sherlock continued, still right in her ear, "we're probably being bugged at this very moment."

Clara felt a thrill shiver up her spine, and it wasn't only because they were being watched and listened to.

Sherlock leaned back and looked at her pointedly. "It seems dangerous, this person watching you," he said with a little nod.

"So we really do have to stop," Clara said loudly, playing along. Sherlock winced and gestured for her to keep her voice down. "I don't want anybody to die," she said, at a normal tone this time.

"I suppose you're right. But we can meet for coffee, tomorrow, right? I have a…book I think you might be interested in. By a Pond fellow. About the…architecture of towers."

Clara struggled to keep down a smile. "Be a little more obvious," she couldn't resist adding. He glared. "About…your…intentions of….dating me," Clara improvised wildly.

"I promise to be nothing but professional," Sherlock said, continuing to glare.

"_Sorry," _she mouthed. Aloud, she added, "Coffee tomorrow. The Pond book, about towers. Ten a.m.?"

"Perfect. Let me escort you out, _Miss Oswald_." He was still annoyed about her dreadful acting skills.

Clara arrived at the Tower of London the next morning with twenty minutes to spare. She had gotten a bit carried away with the lovely conspiratorial plan-ness of it all. But so, it appeared, had Sherlock, for he was leaning against the fence, looking out across the Thames.

"Hey," she said, walking towards him with hands in pockets and a smile on her face.

"Clara," he said, looking at her with something approaching warmth. "Well? In we go."

"Yup." Clara lifted half the stack of papers out of his arms and together they walked towards the gate.

"We're here for…uh, _Pond_," Sherlock said to the guard at the entrance. "And I'm with Scotland Yard, if that helps." He whipped out a very official-looking badge.

"Er, right," the man said. "Let me take you in to my boss."

The guard led them through the throngs of tourists already filling the Tower grounds and into the White Tower. They were then handed off to a disgruntled secretary, who asked a few questions and brought them to a basement office, where another secretary asked more questions, and finally brought to the desk of—"Mark! Mark from the phone call!" Clara said, excited.

The receptionist looked confused before recognition passed over his face. "You're from the phone call! About the Doctor!"

"Yup!" she said.

"Alright, catch-up session over," Sherlock sighed. "Can you please get us to Kate?"

"Of course," Mark said eagerly, and placed a phone call. Minutes later, Kate Lethbridge-Stewart was walking out of an elevator on their left. Clara could have hugged her.

"Clara! And you must be Sherlock," Kate said, taking in the piles of paper in their arms. "You haven't already-"

"We've finished. Now the TARDIS?" Sherlock said, rather rudely, and Clara shot him a look.

"Er…." The blonde woman started, clearly caught off guard. "I'll just have to look some things over. Mark, bring them through to the sitting room." And she stalked off with their pile of papers. Clara looked at Sherlock nervously, but Mark was soon scrambling to do Kate's bidding. He gestured the pair of them into a small room, outfitted with a few simple chairs and one table. Clara sat down, but Sherlock remained obstinately standing. With a few apologies and encouragements, Mark backed out of the room, leaving them alone.

"What's up with you?" Clara asked.

"What do you mean?"

"You're being all rude. You're standing."

"If standing is rude, Clara, then you might as well arrest me."

She rolled her eyes. "You know what I mean."

"If you must know….I'm being like this because you aren't. You're treating this like one big happy adventure or something. You arrived at my flat yesterday, having been up all night crying and paranoid, because you'd been _threatened_. This isn't a _game._"

Clara was stunned speechless for a few seconds. "I know it's not a game. I just- I feel good _doing_ something. Feeling like we're getting somewhere. And what about you? All the _we're not stopping for the world_ stuff? I know you. I know you love it just as much as me. The thrill of the chase, or whatever."

"You don't know me," he bristled, and Clara felt as if she'd been slapped. But he was right, wasn't he? She didn't know him. Not at all.


	21. Chapter 21

After what seemed an eternity of uncomfortable silence, Kate opened the door. "Everything looks to be in order. Well done, you two. A month's worth of paperwork in less than 24 hours. I should hire you."

Clara put on a brave smile. "Thanks. So we can go?"

"You can. Mr. Holmes will have to wait outside with me. But yes, Clara, you're going to see the TARDIS again."

"Thank you," she repeated, the smile turning real with a glowing anticipation. It didn't matter what Sherlock thought of her, because soon, so soon, she was going to see the Doctor again. If all went well.

"You can follow me. But there are a few guidelines," Kate said, and Clara fell into step beside her with Sherlock following just behind the women. "I need you to wear this earpiece. It means we can talk to you, but we can't overhear anything unless you want us to. You have total privacy if you need it. But you won't be able to fly the TARDIS, seeing as we've got the entire Tower TARDIS-blocked. And you have to come out immediately if I ask."

"Fine, all fine," Clara agreed, breathless. Kate handed over the small black device, and Clara placed it in her ear.

"You just press down to transmit. We aren't legally allowed to come into the containment room with you, so don't hesitate to tell us what's happening, but unfortunately we can't help with anything until you make it out."

_Containment room_. The word stuck in Clara's head. It was almost as if the TARDIS was a dangerous prisoner. She supposed it was, in a way.

"We really don't know what's going to happen, Clara," Kate continued, pausing to look her in the eyes. "Are you sure you want to go through with this?"

"I have to," Clara insisted.

"But do you _want _to?"

It took a moment of thought before Clara could be confident in her answer. "I don't know. But I'm doing it, and nothing either of you say can stop it."

Kate let out a small smile, and Clara noticed the pain in her eyes. The older woman had lost people too.

"You aren't going to lose me," she added in a voice she hoped was too quiet for Sherlock to overhear.

"We'd better not," Kate said, snapping back into a quick walk. "I've got to get you on our paperwork team, remember?"

It wasn't much of a joke, but it was enough for the two of them, right then, right there.

Kate turned right suddenly, and they found themselves in a dark space filled with desks, all pointed towards one window. It was almost like a control room. Clara stared at the window in front of them, because there, in the middle of a bright cold space, was the familiar blue box. She impulsively reached out, as if to feel the Doctor grasp her hand as he had done so many times before. But there was no one left to hold her hand, so Clara gave one last smile to Kate, and walked forwards into the containment room.


	22. Chapter 22

"Clara," she turned around. It was Sherlock. He gave her one curt nod—pretty good coming from him, encouragement-wise—and Clara stepped through the door. She checked her earpiece to make sure it was still transmitting, and—_there it was_.

The TARDIS. The sight of the familiar blue box filled Clara with so many mixed emotions that she felt equally ready to sob or laugh out loud. But something wasn't quite right. The paint was peeling in places, and the windows were dusty. No light shone from the little lamp at the top of the box. And—Clara realized this as she stepped towards it in one heart-stopping, breath-catching instant—it was bigger. An image sunk into her thoughts like a death toll. The TARDIS, huge and ominous on the horizon. The Doctor's words. _"When a TARDIS is dying, sometimes the dimension dams start breaking down. They used to call it a size leak. All the bigger-on-the-inside starts leaking to the outside. It grows."_

"Clara, please keep moving. We want to get you in and out as fast as possible," Kate's voice cut in and Clara shook her head.

"Right. Sorry." She walked right up to the blue box, and, a prayer in her mind, yanked on the doors. After only a moment, they swung open. "Thank God," she whispered, and stepped inside.

It was like walking into Danny's apartment, the day after his death. The box felt empty, dead. The only illumination came from a faintly blinking blue light on the console. Clara realized she was holding her breath and let it out, slowly, shakily, as she walked towards the opposite door. She stepped forward, but was stopped—an invisible wall, a force field separated the console room from the rest of the TARDIS. Clara gently pressed a finger to it and watched the tiny vibration blip in a wide circle around the room, like a pebble skimmed over water.

"Clara."

She jumped, but didn't turn around, because that was the Doctor's voice—rough and violent and _him_—only something was wrong.

"You can turn around Clara. But then I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"Doctor," she whispered, trying to catch her breath and utterly failing. There was a pause. Then the Doctor- person—thing- whatever- chuckled.

"No. Not the Doctor. I think you know that, Clara. Now out you go."

"Why?" she whimpered, still refusing to turn around. A chill crept up her spine.

"Because I'm going to initiate the TARDIS self-destruct system. You have two minutes to leave."

"No," Clara hissed.

"Will you listen to me better with this form?"

Her knees almost gave out. It was still not-quite-the-Doctor's voice, but this time it was not-quite-_her_-Doctor's voice. Her Doctor, younger, with an eager boyishness and bowtie almost audible in his words. "Stop it."

"A minute thirty, Impossible Girl. Won't you listen to your boyfriend?"

"Stop it," she repeated, stronger, but still so weak.

"But he's not your boyfriend anymore, is he, Miss Oswald?" It was Sherlock now, with the rich, wry half-sarcasm he always used. "New boyfriend. But what about the old one? What happened to Danny?"

His voice echoed from all sides of the TARDIS. Clara covered her ears and stifled a ragged scream. She couldn't help it. She turned around. There stood Sherlock, but when he spoke, it was with Danny's voice, and there was an unnatural green cast to his skin. The figure blurred in front of Clara's eyes and she stumble towards the doors. Everything was going wrong and she could barely hold herself up and the door was caught and _"Thirty seconds, Clara_," said Danny's voice as she fell backwards out of the TARDIS and into the cold white light.


End file.
